In the morning, I awoke
to the smell of burning rubber--the bats in paradox
with their champagne necks broken,
telling stories from atop
the blisters on the celestial skin.
A sublime masochism with irises that devour events, and ribs of sunshine,
and this was the gong of the eleventh hour somewhere after four a.m.
when the mockingbirds lie bodies in strange angles,
under tracks and atop cars.
Garage underdogs howl at the fog
after self-inflicted shotgun wounds lying in the corner
of the greats things lost and the worst things gained
the bleach corrodes the bombarded sidewalk
that you almost hear smoldering, whimpering on the empathetic verge
of the ocean
where mini-stars explode, civilization ribbons coat the throats
of you pedestrians, humanitarians
all dressed and gifted
to the ****** of equivalence,'
and I am tooth drunk
on the placebo slide, carnations washed beneath the broom
clinging to morsels that ***** blue sky down on the trumpeters.
On the fall of the eleventh hour---Carpe Diem crushed by sweaty palms into ***** work
and screaming
dance parties.
How low?
He, they,
it, I, she
throw lives away like ships
slicing through the ocean, the same reckless, but disciplined authority.